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The whole man stood for force. She was sure that he always had his way
about things, that he simply took for granted having his own way. Yet
there was something in which he had not had his way. Karl had told her a
little about that; she must ask him more about it. It seemed suddenly
that there was something pathetic about this beautiful room. Did it not
reflect a man trying to make up to himself for the things he did not
have? It was a room which suggested pleasant hours and fine, quiet
enjoyment. The deep, leather chairs seemed made for long, intimate
conversations. The dark red tapestry, the oak panelling, this richly
toned rug, the few real pictures, the little odds and ends suggestive of
remote corners of the world--it seemed a setting for some beautiful
companionship, some close sympathy, a place where one would like to sit
for hours and be just one's self. But was not Dr. Parkman's life lacking
in the very things of which this bespoke an appreciation? There was a
subtle pathos in a beautiful room which breathed loneliness.


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